


Happened Before

by objectlesson



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Codependency, Fight Sex, Incest, M/M, PWP, Season 3, dub con, pre apocalypse seasons, rough stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:11:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a fine line between sex and fighting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happened Before

**Author's Note:**

> Season three porn. Because I miss when they loved each other like that. Down own, never happened.

It’s happened before. They don’t talk about it, though, so sometimes Sam thinks he dreamt it. Anyway, there’s a fine line between sex and fighting, so those bruises on his neck the next morning, the teeth marks in his shoulder, the blood crusted on his stomach, under his nails, crumbling from his knuckles, could all be the remnants of a fight. They fight sometimes. That’s happened before, too. His lips could be bitten in a fight. Their dicks could get hard, they could sob and rub against one another until they come in a fight, backed into a corner, Dean’s hands in his hair. It doesn’t seem hard to believe. 

But it also doesn’t seem hard to believe that it’s just sex, either. Not with the way they love each other, the way they grew up hearing over and over again that _blood is everything_ , because everything meant _everything_ , right? Everything meant sex. Meant fighting. Sam stops trying to parse it out, whether its one or the other, because it’s both. It always will be both because they’re both. 

Before they have an expiration date and Dean is hurtling towards hell, Sam is content to know that it will always be like that. That he and Dean will fuck, sometimes, and it will feel like a fight, because it _is_. It’s the product of something long pent up and abhorred for its impossibility. It’s the product of need, so there is never any _time._ Not time for beds, for finesse, to get out of all their clothes, even, just enough time to push their mouths together like clouds converging as a storm commences and thunder erupts, to choke one another with tongue and bite until there is blood, to bruise backs against walls and to force hands into the heat between legs, to jack one another off until their come is so smeared together they don’t know who came first. That would have been okay, for a life time, because enough times of no time makes time and Sam thought they had _time._

A year is not time. So everything changes. Sam realizes that it’s not enough, and he wants it all. All the stuff that requires time. He wants to know what every inch of his brother’ body tastes like, he wants to suck him off, to push their chests flush. He wants to be on top, he wants to be fucked, he wants to kiss slow and then hard and deep and slow again. He wants to flatten Dean’s body, shoves him onto his stomach, spread his ass and eat him out, even though Sam’s never done with anyone and he’s not even sure he’ll like it but he will like it because it’s _Dean_ and Dean defies all technicalities. 

Problem is, he knows Dean’s not gonna let him do this stuff. Dean won’t acknowledge that he’s dying in a year, so he’s not going to take that as an excuse to let himself be slowed down. If they slow down, that means he has time to think about the fact he’s fucking his brother. Sam has come to terms with this ( _it’s happened before_ ) but he’s not sure Dean has. Maybe they haven’t talked about it, ever, because Dean makes the arbitrary division between fighting and sex and has decided that this, these bruises, these kisses, this come, is just fighting. Another way they fight, because there aren’t enough ways in the world for Sam and Dean to fuck each other up so they keep inventing new ones. 

He decides that he’ll tie Dean up if he has to. They’re in the parking lot, they’re on the stoop of their motel room, they unlock the door, and as soon as they’re inside, Sam has his hands on the collar of Dean’s leather jacket, and he’s kissing him. He realizes that he wants this slow, he wants it every day, but he doesn’t know how, _either_. The overwhelm of wanting Dean overcomes him, crushes them together and drains the control from his flesh. A broken sound falls out of Dean, and its the sound of caving in. They collapse onto one of the beds, the mud caked on their boots coming off in flakes in the sheets but Sam doesn’t care, can’t care, because his brother’s skin is hot under his mouth and he’s rutting against the hollow of his hips, between the sharp, tense, muscle of his oblique. 

They come without ever getting the lights on, their clothes off. Sam is collapsed on top of Dean, too heavy for Dean to move, but he’s trying to shove Sam off anyway. Headlights from the motel lot keep leaking in the blinds and momentarily illuminating darkness, and reflect of the wet slick of Dean’s red, open, snarling mouth, the beyond-green of his eyes. Sam kisses him again, slow this time, just a press of his lips followed by another, and Dean jerks away from him like he’s doing something filthy. 

“Get off me, Sam,” he says gruffly, fists on Sam’s chest. “Lemme go.” 

“No,” Sam says bluntly, and his voice is shocking in it’s clarity. 

Dean is stunned by it, and falls silent, his flesh suddenly, miraculously still beneath Sam. “Want you to stay here,” Sam tells him, shaking as his hand cards through Dean’s sweat-warm hair, lowers to cup his cheek with tenderness like a memory, something neither of them has felt since they were too young to know they didn’t touch like other brothers. He thumbs along the edge of his jaw, where Dean is losing the smoothness from shaving that morning. 

“Stop it, Sammy,” which he doesn’t mean. Not with _Sammy_ at the end, not with the pliancy of his neck as Sam bends to lick it, the tendons there he has never felt slack like this. He kisses the pulse of Dean’s throat, a terrified, rabbit-quick flutter under the swollen wet of his lips. “Shouldn’t be,” Dean mumbles, and Sam feels it vibrate through his mouth. 

“Should,” Sam tells him. “Want to.” Sam is amazed that he doesn’t have to hold Dean down and force him to stay like he anticipated. His skin is still ready to fight, still ready to thrash and wrestle until they are soaked with sweat and too slippery to hold onto one another but still, still, even then Sam was prepared to scream, throw his whole weight onto Dean and tell him _not this time, this time I want you here. I want you, not just to fight you, not just to fuck you, all of you, Dean. You can’t leave, I won’t let you._

Dean is letting him do all of this, and he is not struggling. Then, _then_ there is his hand, which rises, heavy and hot and calloused and scarred, and lands on the back of Sam’s neck, a silent _okay, okay Sammy. I’m letting you_. Sam’s breath catches as Dean’s fingers slide through the tangles of his hair. 

He thought there would be so much more to fight before he got to this. He thought there would be fight after fight, every single time he wanted Dean a struggle until Dean relented. He thought he would have to teach his brother how to slow down, but here Dean is, tilting Sam’s face up with sure hands and kissing him with tongue, teasing his lips apart and tracing the lines of his teeth, and Sam never _knew_ Dean was a good kisser, thought all those girls in high school were lying, sucking up because in his experience, he never felt Dean like this, never felt Dean as anything but fists and teeth and want that was almost anger. But here Dean is, under him, hips slow and careful in their movement, lips soft with something more than blood, hands gentle and wandering across his back like they have _time_ , time which they don’t have, hands like a lie, time like a lie. 

Sam wants all of it, all the lies, because he feels like the world owes it to him, after taking everything else. He grinds down into his brother, and then Dean is flipping him over, roughing his palms all over Sam’s chest and under his shirt, breaking their kiss just to look at him, mouth swollen, eyes lost and prairie-huge, thinnest ring of green around a core of blackest black. “God, Sammy,” Dean breathes, damp warm air flickering across Sam’s sternum. “Wanted you like this for so long. Gonna take you apart.” 

It’s happened before. Sam has been wrong, Sam has been so blinded by his own desire to have all of Dean that he forgets that Dean wants all of him too. Dean is as selfish, as insane, because he wouldn’t have gotten the dirt of the crossroads under his nails, he wouldn’t have _died_ for Sam had he not been the same ruthlessly selfish brother as Sam was. Sam has been wrong. Sam has thought he knew what was going on between them, that he had it figured out while Dean was running from it, and he has been proved wrong before, by Dean’s lips and Dean’s knee dragging between his own thighs, pressing into him until he cries out. 

“Want to taste every inch of you. Want to suck your cock. Want to fuck your ass, _God_ , baby, Sammy baby,” Dean rambles breathlessly, against the trail of hair between Sam’s navel and his hard-again dick. 

“Fuck,” is all Sam can say, again and again as his hips lift off the bed and thrust helplessly against air, forced back down into the muddy mattress by Dean’s grip heavy and sure around this thighs. 

Dean laughs a low, rumbling laugh and asks, “It took me dying for you to tell me you wanted all that, too?” 

Sam doesn’t want to hear about death. He doesn’t want to hear about not having time when they have time, right now, so he tightens fists in Dean’s hair, and forces his wet, perfect mouth down the length of his dick, losing himself to what has never happened before.


End file.
